


both hands (now don't close your eyes)

by ChancellorGriffin



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, New Planet, Pegging, Sex Toys, Strap-Ons, sub marcus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 00:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: "It’s like a second Polis, their first few weeks on the ground, it’s like falling in love all over again, and perhaps that’s why the memory of that conversation from so many years ago comes back to her. Perhaps that’s why she decides it’s time for Marcus to try the only thing in a lifetime of sex that he’s ever done just once."Abby visits the village midwife on the new planet and buys a gift for Marcus that opens up an entirely new world of intimacy between them.





	both hands (now don't close your eyes)

_"and I am watching your chest rise and fall_  
_like the tides of my life a_ _nd the rest of it all_  
_and your bones have been my bedframe_  
_and your flesh has been my pillow_  
_I have been waiting for sleep_  
_to offer up the deed with both hands_

 _now use both hands_  
_oh, now don't close your eyes_  
_I am writing graffiti on your body_  
_I am drawing the story of_  
_how hard we try"_

* * *

 Marcus has done this once before. Twenty-nine years ago, in the Guard barracks, with Charles.

(No, wait. A hundred and fifty-four years ago. He has to keep reminding himself of this.)

Abby is the only person he has ever told.

He tells her in Polis, on their third night together, when they stay up until dawn kissing and touching and stroking and whispering and laughing and confessing. Abby’s wedding night. How they both lost their virginities. How both of them, they learn now decades later, had their first kiss at the same Unity Day party (Marcus was fourteen, Abby thirteen). Marcus asks Abby if she ever slept with Callie. No, although as teenagers there was a lot of kissing. She asks him if he’s ever kissed a man, expecting a stiff denial.

This is when she learns about the _other_ Marcus Kane. The one she never met.

The one who hasn’t shut down, grown cold and hard, because his dad hasn’t died yet, dumping all the responsibility of caring for Vera and her church on one lonely boy.

Young Marcus Kane is a little bit wild and a little bit reckless and a _lot_ charming. He learns to love sex young and gives his heart away freely. He grows up in a different social caste from Abby, their paths won’t cross until the Council, so she’ll never meet twenty-year-old Marcus, who is no stranger to ducking into dimly-lit corners of the Ark with pretty girls or pretty boys. He’s good with his hands and _great_ with his mouth and laughs easily and never asks anything of you that you don’t want to give. Sex is simple, then, just a shortcut to closeness and pleasure and joy.

And once, on a narrow bunk in an empty room after a long, grueling day of training, he learns a deeper and fiercer and more intense pleasure, as a big male body presses him into a thin mattress stinking of liquor and sweat, and kisses the back of his neck, and murmurs deep rolling baritone moans into his ear, and opens him up completely in every single way.

That Marcus Kane dies at age twenty-two when his dad is floated, and a new one is born in his place. A Marcus so terrified he would not survive another such loss that love of any kind feels dangerous. So he closes all the doors, one by one. No more casual trysts. No more intimacy. He retreats from the church and his mother. He throws himself into his work. He becomes a perfect soldier.

In the absence of a father, everything he learns about being a leader, being a man, comes from his mentor – Thelonious Jaha.

This is the Marcus Kane that Abby will meet a decade later, and she will correctly sense from the minute she lays eyes on him that his fanatical adherence to the law is a mask, and he will feel too nakedly seen by her and resent it, and this will be the beginning.

But they have left that Marcus and that Abby behind, those lives are a hundred years and an entire galaxy behind them, and this Marcus Kane is no longer a stranger to loss, which means it is no longer his greatest fear, and finally, finally, joy seems possible.

Everyone feels revived by setting foot on land again. Breathing fresh air, drinking clean water, gazing up at a blue sky. Flowers. Bread. Mountains. Things they thought they’d lost. Everyone has more energy, works harder, needs less sleep, smiles more.

And for some – Marcus and Abby in particular – it revives other long-dormant things as well.

They have sex on this new planet the way they did in Polis – free and uninhibited and full of giddy exploration, both of them relearning their bodies after long absences and intense physical suffering. Marcus moves more slowly after his surgery, with new scars on his throat and chest. Abby gets tired much more easily than she used to, her body still rebuilding after detox. They’ve survived, a little more bruised and battered and weary, but still themselves. But it’s like a second Polis, their first few weeks on the ground, it’s like falling in love all over again, and perhaps that’s why the memory of that conversation from so many years ago comes back to her.

Perhaps that’s why she decides it’s time for Marcus to try the only thing in a lifetime of sex that he’s ever done just once.

* * * * *

They’ve begun building their own encampment in the center of a vast prairie, at the intersection of two rivers so water will always be plentiful. Four hundred people is too many for any of the towns nearby to assimilate, but they’ve built good relationships, despite having little to trade except manual labor and whatever can be stripped from the ship.

The nearest town is about two hours’ walk, and Abby’s there at least twice a week, bartering her services for supplies to replenish their own depleted medical stores. On this particular day, she’s come alone, something she relishes. What a luxury, for someone raised in a cramped maze of tiny steel rooms, who lived for six years in an underground bunker before spending another hundred and more locked in a glass box, to stroll idly through fields of colorful wildflowers, alone as far as the eye can see except for her own thoughts.

The residents of this planet have been here for nearly two hundred and fifty years, and they arrived prepared to settle. As a result, they’ve built towns that look far more like old Earth – the one that existed before Praimfaya – than they do like Polis. It’s like the pictures in her history books. There’s a main street crowded with colorful storefronts, an open-air market, a park, a school, a communal vegetable garden. Everything is clean and bright and well-tended, in a way none of them have ever experienced before in their lives.

The particular establishment Abby has come to visit today is located off the main thoroughfare of town, in a small cottage painted a pale, creamy blue, with a wild and overgrown garden surrounding it on all sides. There are several apothecaries in town, as well as a proper surgeon and several well-trained doctors (she’s worked with them all by now), but she visits this one the most.

Martha is the town’s fertility specialist and midwife, and she is already Abby’s favorite person in the whole town, although Madi is privately convinced she is a witch. Martha could be anywhere from fifty to a thousand years old, with ageless skin and snow-white hair down to her waist and keen blue eyes that crackle with intelligence. She has already made herself indispensable to Diyoza, with a dazzling array of herbs that do seem to have near-magical properties in remedying everything from swollen joints to morning sickness.

(“Always better to make sure the witch is on _your_ side, kid,” Diyoza tells Madi, who remains unconvinced.

“What if the baby has three heads or turns purple or something?”

 _“Then_ you can say ‘I told you so.’ But not before.”)

Diyoza is the reason Abby has come today; she’s out of the crushed yellow flower blossoms Martha gave her which, brewed into tea, are the best cure for nausea Abby’s ever encountered. And while she’s here, since she’s alone, she plans to linger and explore the shop, more than she’s had a chance to do the last few times she was here. (Marcus always wants to spend most of the day browsing the public market, and also Martha makes him uncomfortable. He sides with his granddaughter on the witchcraft thing, and there’s a pointed appraisal in the old lady’s eyes that he complains makes him feel naked. It doesn’t help when Abby patiently explains that she’s just doing her job and assessing his probable fertility.)

Martha is in today, and happy to see Abby, offering her a cup of tea as she looks around the shop. The yellow flowers for Diyoza are easily found, along with a cluster of odd purple leaves Martha recommends if the baby is giving her acid reflux (which she is, though Abby will not tell Madi about the accuracy of the old woman’s guessing). She also obtains a few necessities for other women’s needs – there are herbs that serve as contraceptives and others as abortifacients, there are herbs that enhance fertility and herbs that help manage menstrual pain, and Martha owes Abby for assisting her last week on a life-threatening pregnancy, so everything’s on the house.

The little white flowers for enhancing fertility are found in a corner of the shop Abby has never really explored before, and she realizes with a start that she’s underestimated the diversity of the services Martha provides.

"Oh," she says, swallowing hard. "Is this for sale?"

Martha cackles at the look of awe and astonishment on Abby’s face as she reaches out to brush her hands lightly over the wood-and-leather device. “I’ve met your husband,” she says merrily, “I wouldn’t think you’d be in need of assistance in that area. For one thing, that one can’t possibly be as big as what you’re used to.”

_“Martha.”_

“What? He’s tall.”

“Don’t you be staring at his . . . how tall he is, next time he comes in. You know you terrify him.”

“Good,” says Martha breezily, “I like it when men are terrified of me.” Then the penny drops. “Oh, I see,” she says impishly. “It’s for _him.”_

“Forget it,” says Abby, withdrawing her hand, “I can’t trust you not to tease him about it next time he visits, and then he’ll be so mortified he'll force us to uproot again and go find another planet.”

Martha laughs uproariously at this, but she’s a keen businesswoman who knows when she has a client on the hook, and her pointed gaze keeps steering Abby back to that same shelf.

It’s really beautiful, a carved wooden shape with a slight curve to it, sheathed in buttery-soft leather as soft as skin. Martha’s right, it’s definitely smaller than Marcus, but for the purpose Abby has in mind that’s actually preferable. The wood is polished down to the smoothness of glass, and the leather harness attaches cleanly to the base. It actually looks . . . comfortable.

Abby has seen these in pictures, she’s a doctor after all, and she knows they existed on the Ark, though she never saw one herself. She understood them primarily to be of use for two women. But from the minute she lays eyes on it – displayed like art on a wooden shelf surrounded by jars and vases of colorful herbs – she knows exactly what she wants it for.

“I’ll put it on your tab,” says Martha, “and you’ll want that blue jar on the bottom shelf as well.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you well enough, Abigail, to know that you were planning on quietly pocketing a bottle of medical-grade lubricant from your own surgery for this, which would utterly ruin my good leather. The blue jar is a cream pressed from thistle seeds. Better for preserving my handiwork, and he’ll like the smell of it a great deal better than your chemicals.”

“Fine.” There’s no point in fighting her on it, so Abby doesn’t bother.

“You can use it on yourself, too, though I don’t imagine you find yourself much in need of artificial lubricant when you’re married to a man with a beard like that, who probably knows how to use it.”

 _“This,”_ sighs Abby. “This right here. This is why he doesn’t like you.”

“It was a compliment!”

“If you repeat _any_ of this to him,” she tells the old woman firmly, “I am taking my business elsewhere and you will never see me again.”

But her eyes are laughing, and so are Martha’s, and the package is wrapped up in a discreet box tied with woven twine, and loaded into Abby’s traveling knapsack along with the packets of herbs, and she leaves with flushed cheeks and a smile on her face to spend the next two hours as she makes her way back to camp attempting to figure out the best way to introduce the device to Marcus without inciting an automatic and instinctive refusal on Martha-related grounds.

But she doesn’t come up with one, so she adopts the simplest and most expedient path, and lies to his face.

“I bought us something at the market today,” she murmurs as she joins him in line at the campfire for supper.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I bought _us_ something,” she repeats, meaningfully, and he turns pink and looks down at the ground.

“You mean for . . . for the bedroom.”

“Yes.”

“And you just walked around through an open-air market, carrying it? You’re much braver than I am.”

“It’s in a box, Marcus, I’m not an idiot.”

He kisses her hair. “I love that you thought of me,” he says. “And whatever it is, I’m ready to try it.”

“You’ll like it,” she says, in a soft silky voice that promises future pleasures. “I know you will.”

“And thank God it didn’t come from that Martha,” he says in obvious relief. “She already knows far too much about our love life as it is.”

“She had nothing to do with it,” Abby lies sweetly, taking his hand. “I promise.”

* * * * *

Privacy is a worry of the past.

Marcus and Abby grew up on the Ark, and they have never lived anywhere with so much _space._ For the Grounders, the new planet is a homecoming, returning a universe away to a place they’d once been. Sunshine, birdsong, the smell of green things growing . . . these were grafted onto their bones, stitched into their skin. They were not formed to be crowded into labyrinthine corridors of tiny metal boxes with no natural light.

But to the Sky People, these things will never cease to be a revelation. As a ramshackle settlement gradually springs up - as tents and bedrolls become lean-to’s, which become cabins, which become homes - they stretch out, and they take up room, and they _breathe._ Abby no longer needs to hold onto everyone she loves with both hands, because her daughter lives only on the other side of the campfire, and she can wake up every morning to the sound of Madi’s laughter floating like a cascade of silver bells through her open window.

Clarke had, in fact, claimed the cabin beside her mother’s on the first night, but switched with Diyoza on the second, mumbling something about Abby needing to stay close to her most demanding patient. If Abby was surprised by this, or hurt, however, it dissipated the next morning, when Diyoza greeted her neighbors with a raised eyebrow and an amused reminder that they no longer lived on a spaceship where the beds were bolted to the floor.

_Oh._

But Diyoza is a mercifully heavy sleeper, and now the bed _is_ bolted to the floor; so that lone dawn encounter where a flushed and shirtless Marcus, leaving a just-sated Abby curled up on the pillows so he can bring her breakfast in bed, accidentally collided with a mortified Clarke as they stepped out their front doors at the same time, is fortunately never repeated.

Now, everything is exactly right.

How decadent and hedonistic, not to have to whisper. To know their nearest neighbor is a hundred yards away, sleeping the sleep of the exhaustedly pregnant, and the night is theirs to savor freely.

But tonight, everything is amplified, electric. Tonight, a secret thrums between them, warm and heavy inside that wooden box, and Marcus lets the delicious mystery sweep over his skin like a summer breeze, as they savor the thrill of pretending this is an ordinary night. An ordinary dinner, an ordinary evening by the campfire, an ordinary series of goodnights, an ordinary walk back to their cabin followed by an ordinary closing of the door.

“All right, you tease,” Marcus chuckles as they step into the small, cozy alcove of their bedroom, and sits down to unlace his boots. “How much longer do I have to wait?”

“Not long, I promise,” she murmurs, leaning down to kiss him as she tugs his soft gray t-shirt off over his head, amused - not for the first time - that he continues to resist adopting the more colorful and loose-fitting garb of the locals. Abby finds it revelatory, Abby had no idea what _dresses_ felt like, Abby has realized she likes the way her hair looks when she wears green. And Marcus adores her in her green dress, as he adores her in anything; but try as she might, she _cannot_ peel the man out of that threadbare shirt which is now over a century old.

“Should I be doing anything?”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” she says to him, unable to resist licking her lips a bit as he rises from the bed to unzip his jeans and let them fall.

He catches her watching, and raises an eyebrow. “Unbelievable,” he sighs. “Every damned time.”

“I’m not going to apologize for how much I like watching you take your pants off.”

“You’re very predictable.”

“Well, I’ve known you for a hundred and fifty years. Close your eyes.”

And he does, reclining naked on the mattress, dark hair soft as a shadow against cool blue pillowcases, black eyelashes brushing his cheek, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth which somehow merges fond amusement, raw desire, and the heartbreaking vulnerability of a man who still cannot quite believe any of this is real.

And then she says his name, and his eyes flutter open, and it turns out Abby is not predictable at all.

“Oh,” he says, swallowing hard, as his gaze is drawn irrevocably downwards. “Oh.”

She’s naked now too, her hair loose down her back, and she’s put it on for him, and the way he can’t take his eyes off it makes her feel powerful and dangerous and wild.

She’d put it on herself on the walk back from town - not the entire journey, just half a mile or so, just to teach herself how to fasten and adjust the straps comfortably, to grow used to wearing it and moving in it. She was alone in the meadows, no company except birds as far as the eye could see, and anyway it was hidden beneath the heavy green folds of her skirt. It felt new and strange, it made her walk differently, hold herself differently, its smooth weight pressed snugly against the mound of her cunt, and by the time she removed it and placed it back in its box it was as though the buttery-soft leather harness had already become part of her, merging with the white skin of her hips and cunt and thighs.

But oh God, it’s all new to Marcus, and he stares at her for all the world as if she’s just socked him in the jaw in the best way possible. He’s _stunned,_ awestruck, knocked sideways, and she watches the soft cock between his thighs give a palpable jolt, twitching like a live wire, as the pieces begin to knit together in his endearingly baffled head.

“Abby,” he breathes hoarsely, as she kneels beside him, holding the intoxicatingly fragrant blue jar. “Abby. Oh, Christ. Are we - are you really - do you . . . _want_ this?”

She reaches out to stroke his whiskered jaw with the back of her hand, savoring the rasping little scritch of his beard like it's a kiss. “I want to know what it feels like to be you,” she murmurs. “And I want you to feel what it’s like to be me.”

“Oh, _fuck,_ Abby,” and instantly there’s precum glistening on the flared velvet tip of his cock, already beginning to flush tight and shiny and purple and thick for her, and a hundred things are happening inside her at once.

There’s the way his eyes grow bright with shocked gratitude at the way she does this to him, over and over, effortlessly locating the things he would never in a thousand years be brave enough to ask for and simply handing them to him, like a gift.

There’s the _stillness_ of him, entirely frozen except for that leaping, urgent cock; the way he patiently awaits her next instruction, the way he holds his powerful body in check even though she can feel him practically vibrating off the bed with desire, an elemental force only barely contained.

There’s the way his jaw clenches as his gaze rakes greedily over the elegant curve between her thighs, arching up towards her belly, and the now-ancient memory from youth she can feel bubbling back up to the surface of his mind in a tumble of fragmented words like _yes_ and _more_ and _want._

There’s the thrill of being _seen_ so deeply, the realization that for all these years, she has held his secret in her heart, that she has not forgotten, that it meant as much to her to receive such a vulnerable confidence as it did him to entrust it to her, that this desire he has never shared with anyone else is now knit into the story of Marcus and Abby, and now she is turning the page.

There’s the overwhelming depth of absolute trust, the immediate and unhesitating _Yes_ in his dark brown gaze, the knowledge that he can place his body safely in her hands and know it will only ever be cherished.

And through it all, for both of them, there is the sheer wonder of this: that after the age of fifty, after so many years together, with gray hair and old scars and what feels some days to be a hundred lifetimes lived . . . that still, between them, there are _firsts._

He has done this once, but not with a woman. Not with Abby.

Abby has never done it at all.  
_  
Loving you will never cease to be an adventure, will it?,_ they both think, at the exact same time.

She makes him comfortable, adjusting bedding and caressing hair and guiding his body into place, until Marcus is settled on his stomach, head resting in the crook of his own elbow, face turned to the side. His pillow is beneath his head; Abby tugs her own halfway down the bed, and slides it under his hips, opening him up to her. His cock is pushed hard and flat against his belly, pressing into the mattress, so erect it can’t possibly be comfortable but he hardly seems to care.

His body is clean and warm and male, smelling of the spicy herbal soap they use for showering and laundry, with his own delicious Marcus scent beneath it, and she kneels behind him to look - not for the first time, but certainly more closely than ever before - at the part of his body she has, until tonight, explored the least.

She loves it like she loves every part of him, of course. Sometimes when he rises and falls above her she lets her hot palms glide down his spine and find the hard slope of his ass, digging in fiercely until he hears him gasp, gripping him so hard she can picture the skin around each fingertip turning white. Sometimes she draws a lazy trail between the twin curves, tapping lightly at the place she’s never entered, because she likes the way it astonishes him every time, like he can’t believe she remembered.

She loves it, but she doesn’t _know_ it, yet - not the way she knows his tongue, knows his chest and throat, knows his hands, knows his hair. Not the way she knows his cock.

But she will.

Tonight, she will.

At first, she does nothing but touch. Light dry strokes, her fingers just grazing the skin, ticklish and soothing by turns. He grunts happily into the pillow, relaxing. Always thirsty for touch, always happiest when her body is in contact with his, that lifelong loneliness only Abby can truly hold at bay.

Delicate brushes turn into firm, gentle massage, and he melts beneath her hands. The practical anatomy expert in her knows the human body carries a surprising amount of tension in these muscles, and for a few minutes she lets Doctor Griffin take over - both because Marcus deserves to be as relaxed as possible before she begins, and also because that side of her turns him on so much. His muffled moans, as she kneads and prods at him, turn decadent, blissed out.

“What’s that one called?”

_“Gluteus Maximus,”_ she informs him, fingers working out the knots in the largest, most powerful of the muscles knit together by God to form Marcus Kane’s perfect ass.

“Mmmm. What’s that one?”

_“Gemellus Inferior.”_

“Like the first name better,” he mumbles, “more manly.”

“Wait until we really get going,” she chuckles, smacking his ass lightly to chide him, “I’ll have some new words for you then, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘exterior sphincter muscle,’” she says primly, all doctor now. “Followed by ‘interior sphincter muscle.’ Followed by ‘prostate.’”

She can hear him gulp.

He knows what all those words mean.

Lifting the lid off Martha’s jar, she’s hit with a glorious aroma, like a forest and an ocean and a bouquet of wildflowers all together, somehow. Marcus does not need to ask her what it is, Marcus understands what’s going to happen next, and as her slippery, scented fingers begin to slowly massage the silky cream into his skin, he goes as soft and open and yielding beneath her as though he’s asleep.

Only the dazed moaning gives him away.

Her touch is so gentle it could almost be innocent, if not for the heavy drag of the wood-and-leather cock between her hips which, from time to time, brushes against the back of his thighs. Her chaste, professional massage grows more intimate, so slowly he scarcely notices where Dr. Griffin ends and Abby begins, so tenderly that his body does not resist her.

Just one finger, at first, a gentle, exploratory circling, caressing the clenched little opening until it learns to unlock itself and let her in. When she first penetrates him, it’s a fraction of an inch, the bottom of her shell-pink fingernail just barely disappearing inside him, but the sound he makes overwhelms her. It’s a kind of keening, naked groan, it sounds like hunger and grief at once, and there it is again, the astonishment of _firsts,_ the realization that after so many nights over so many years he still has pleasure sounds she hasn’t heard yet.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she murmurs, stroking him soothingly. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just make sure you let me know if I’m hurting you, if you need me to slow down.”

“‘s perfect,” he mumbles incoherently into the pillow. “You’re perfect.”

She gives his ass a light but pointed smack. “I mean it,” she insists. “I don’t want you to humor me. I have to know what you’re feeling, I have to know everything’s okay.”

He nods, understanding, voice more serious now. “Promise,” he says. “Promise I’ll tell you.”

“More?”

A wordless nod, eager, impatient, _fuck yes Abby please,_ and she returns her finger to its place.

Time slows, and stills, and stops. Somewhere overhead the stars are tracing their delicate trajectories through the night sky, as the moon rises and descends, but inside the cabin there is nothing except this, nothing except the scent of forest-saltwater-roses and the feel of skin on skin and the press of leather straps into slender hips. She works him open with infinite patience as he turns to liquid on the bed, his whole body flushed and happy and sheened with sweat, his breath coming in deep, ragged sighs. He’s as tight as she would have expected, for someone who only did this once an entire lifetime ago; but so much of this is mental, too, and his perfect trust that Abby will never hurt him softens every barrier. One finger up to the knuckle takes just a few minutes, letting her in far enough to massage him from the inside, a heavenly stretching sensation, until he can take a second finger.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” she croons over and over, leaning forward to pepper kisses along his spine and shoulders, torturing him with the slow drag of her leather cock along his skin. “So good. I’m so proud of you.”

“Wasn’t . . . like this before,” he whispers between gasping breaths. “Everything’s new, with you. He didn’t, it wasn’t,” and his voice trails off, but Abby understands.

She knows that side of Marcus too, she’s been fucked by him the way he was fucked by Charles - deep and hard and urgent, somehow tender and unapologetic at the same time. Charles, he means, did not prod deft fingers into the knots of his gluteal muscles to soften and open up his body. Charles did not massage gentle, aromatic lubricant into every square inch of the tight, grasping entrance, over and over until his finger made obscene wet sounds with every movement. Charles _wanted,_ and _took,_ and the immediacy of it was the pleasure as much as the penetration. And Marcus regrets nothing, because he wanted it that way too.

But it isn’t how he wants it with Abby.

He wants to be petted, soothed, teased, stroked. He likes her soft kisses on the taut slope of his ass, her low crooning voice in his ear every time she moves in deeper, the _swish_ of her loose hair on his thigh.

He wanted Charles to fuck him that night, but he wants Abby to enter his deepest place and open him up completely.

“I’m so in love with you,” he murmurs unexpectedly into the silent room as her third finger prepares to slip inside, and she can’t keep the sting of tears from her eyes after that. Intimacy always does this to him, recentering his whole world with her as its axis, and it will never stop feeling like a miracle to her that she is still the object of someone’s most desperate desire.

She finds herself wondering how it’s possible to feel a tidal wave of affection for someone so deep it feels very nearly like grief at the exact moment that you are sliding a third finger into their ass, but this is yet another of the wonderfully incomprehensible contradictions of married life with Marcus Kane. The way fondness and lust lay side by side, inextricable from each other. And suddenly she feels much too far away from him like this, kneeling near the foot of the bed between his thighs, so little of her skin touching his own.

She needs to be closer.

She needs to be _inside._

It’s time.

She rises to her feet, walking around the side of the bed until she’s close enough to his drowsy, contented face, his blissed-out smile, his black eyelashes fluttering against caramel-brown skin, that she can reach out and stroke his hair.

He opens his eyes, seeing her cock only a few inches from him, and gazes at it in something like reverence before looking up at her for permission.

“Anything you want,” she says, smiling.

He sits up on his elbow to reach out an exploratory finger, running it over the base of the shaft where the glossy dark wood is visible under the sheath. Feels the weight of it in his hand, getting a sense of its size and pressure against his skin. Caresses the thick leather, so soothing to the touch, which covers the impossibly smooth wooden surface and makes it feel warm, almost human.

Like he’s reading her mind, he reaches into her hand and takes the blue jar. Without tearing his eyes from hers, he dips his fingers into the scented cream and begins deftly, expertly massaging it into the leather.

 _Oh, God._

Not a single part of him is touching Abby’s actual body, but she still thinks she might come just from this. He isn’t . . . _masturbating_ it, not exactly. She’s watched him touch his own cock, this isn’t how he does it. But she has seen him helping Lincoln in the stables, back at Camp Jaha, and she suddenly remembers that he knows all about keeping leather supple by regularly massaging oil into it. They had to do it with the saddles, to keep them from going dry and cracking.

Is he already thinking about how to keep this device in good condition? Is he already envisioning years and years of use, time and friction and the oil of pressed thistle seeds loosening the fibers of the leather sheath into a melting softness that will feel better and better inside him the more use it gets?

Marcus caresses the leather of the cock like it’s a precious possession he’s tending, like its care is a sober and weighty task. Abby grounds her heels against the cool metal floor, holding her body still, and from time to time his movements push the base of the dildo hard against the mound of her cunt, a cruelly delicious whisper of sensation nowhere near where she really wants it, enough to tease but not to satisfy. But she’s as wet as the leather cock is, by the time Marcus is finished, and she feels a flutter of orgasm begin to build up inside her, just from the way his hands move with such care up and down the surface. He’s so _earnest_ about it, he’s taking the preparation of his own fucking so _seriously,_ so immersed in the task that she wonders if he even notices the flushed, pulsing cock between his own thighs, fully erect and twitching against his stomach.

When he finally takes his hands away and looks up at her expectantly for her next instruction, she steps between his thighs, leans down to clutch his jaw between her fingers, and seize his mouth with her own.

“On your side, baby,” she murmurs as she steps back, and a flush sweeps over his cheeks as he nods and obeys.

Abby takes the blue jar back from him and sinks down onto the bed at his back, taking one last opportunity to rub the tight, shadowed circle of his entrance with more of the scented lubricant, to make sure he’s as wet and ready as he can possibly be. Then she curls up behind him, the way he likes to sleep, and nuzzles warm kisses into the back of his neck. He’s so soft in her arms, so pliant, so willing, but he’s trembling a little too.

“Are you nervous?” she murmurs into his ear.

He gives a wry, embarrassed chuckle, lifting one hand to cover hers where it rests on his thigh. “I suppose I feel a bit like a virgin again. It was only the once, after all, and it was so long ago. And you are _remarkably_ well-endowed, for such a small woman,” he teases, making her giggle and earning himself a light kick in the shin.

“If you make me laugh, I’m not going to be able to hold you still,” she chides him, pressing her palm against his hip and running it soothingly up and down the side of his top thigh. His body, reclining on its side, makes a gentle S-shaped curve, from the head pillowed on one bent arm to the legs he’s curled behind him, and she fits into it perfectly, like she always does. “I’ll go as slow as you need me to,” she whispers, positioning herself at his entrance. “And if you don’t like it -”

“I’ll like it,” he murmurs hoarsely. “I want it. I want you like this. I didn’t know, I never would have . . . but I do.”

“Okay,” she says, kissing his shoulder. “Take a deep breath in. Hold it for a second. When you exhale, I’ll start to push in.”

He nods, a little hesitant but entirely trusting, and she feels his chest lift as he follows her instructions.

 _Inhale. Two. Three. Four._

 _Hold. Two. Three. Four._

 _Exhale. Two. Three . . ._

“Oh fuck oh fuck _oh fuck,”_ he shudders, all the rest of the breath falling out of his lungs, as the curved tip of the leather cock gently nudges its way inside the first ring of muscle.

She holds still, waiting, soothing him with her hands, with her kisses, with her cooing inarticulate murmurs of love against his hair and skin. It feels so cruel that she has no nerve endings inside this damn thing, that she can’t _feel_ with it the way she could with her fingers, to savor with every molecule of her body the pleasure of stretching Marcus open like this; but the way he trembles beneath her, the way resistance holds tight and then gives way, makes her cunt ache desperately.

She’s going to come before he does, at this rate, without even being touched at all.

The dildo is smooth all the way up and down; no veins, no flared head or coronal ridge to contend with, and she enters him as gently as possible, just an inch or so, before pausing to let his pounding heart and ragged breath catch up to her. She doesn’t need her hand on the cock to guide it anymore, she can push with her hips from here, so she lets her arm drape over his chest, where his own immediately lifts to take her hand in his own, pressed against his heart.

“Are you all right?” she murmurs into his ear. He nods but doesn’t speak. “Do you want me to take it out?” A desperate, urgent shake of the head. No, he really, really, _really_ doesn’t. “Okay, then I’m going to stay here for a minute and let you get used to me,” she tells him, kissing his shoulder, letting him press her hand in his against his violently pounding heart, until she can feel the clench of his muscles around the dildo begin to unfurl like the petals of a blossom, making space for her. “That’s really good, baby,” she tells him, lifting one thigh and draping it over his to pull herself closer. “Tell me if you want a little bit more.”

“I do,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m ready.”

So she buries her mouth once more in the hollow of his neck, and rocks her hips, and the soft leather pushes deep, deep, deep, and Marcus cries out in stunned pain-pleasure as the tip finally penetrates the second ring of muscle.

“Abby,” he chokes out, voice rough and raw. _“Fuck._ Oh God, Abby.”

He shudders in her arms, chest heaving, the heart beneath her palm hammering so violently she half-imagines it might break out of his chest. “Breathe, sweetheart,” she reminds him, her breath warm on his skin, her voice low and soothing, “big deep breaths, in and out, like this.” She inhales, behind him, he can feel the press of her nipples against his back, and then exhales deeply, her body melting further into his. Marcus, shakily, follows suit, and she holds herself deep inside him for a long moment until his breath finally syncs with hers, deep and slow and steady.

“I need you to keep breathing, just like this,” she murmurs, “because I’m going to push in more and I’m about to hit your prostate, and you’re going to feel . . . a lot.” He nods, bracing himself, letting her breathing guide him. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready."

But he isn’t. Not even a little.

She’s so careful, so gentle, so slow, and at first she only gives it the lightest, most delicate tap; but Marcus flinches like it’s a live wire inside of him, like electricity is shooting through his entire body.

 _“Jesus!”_ he exclaims wildly. “How did you - what _is_ that?”

“You know that spot you like,” she explains, pulling out a bit to let him catch his breath again, “when you use your fingers on me, and kind of curve them forward, and there’s that one little button you like to push to make me come? Well, you have a button, too.”

“I’ve _never . . .”_ he pants, but can’t finish the sentence.

“Did Charles not?"

“No. I’d definitely remember if he had. It was just, it was _different,_ it was the friction, you know, he was so _thick,_ it was the weight of it, the feeling of being . . . _full,_ like that. I liked it. I really liked it. But oh God, it wasn’t like _that,_ he didn’t do _that_ to me.”

Abby’s palm slides down his chest, his own hand chasing hers, until she has his cock gripped in a loose fist, slicking the dewy beads of precum up and down the shaft. He groans heavily, turning his head over his shoulder, pleading to be kissed, and she obliges him happily, her tongue licking his lips apart and plunging hungrily inside. When she pulls away, his eyes are dark and desperate with a kind of wild, animal lust that makes her cunt clench, makes her wish there was a second leather dildo on the other end of the harness so she could feel what he’s feeling.

“I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” she tells him. “Just keep breathing. In and out. Nice and slow. Stay right here with me, okay?”

He nods, shakily, and she withdraws the leather cock nearly all the way, before gliding home in one sweet smooth thrust and tapping hard against his prostate, and Marcus loses it completely.

 _“Fuck,_ Jesus, oh God, Abby, _Jesus, fuck,”_ he mutters, over and over again, like those are the only words in the English language his mind is able to retain. He’s trying so hard to breathe steadily, but he convulses every time she touches that place, and she feels him loosen and open up further to her with every thrust, sighing with pleasure at the feeling of leather and wood stretching him open, and then giving a sharp stunned cry as she expertly nails his prostate again and again like she’s been doing this all her life, and soon they’ve both stopped thinking about it and brains shut down to let animal instinct take over. The strap-on is a part of Abby now, it’s merged with her body, it responds to her commands, and now she’s fucking her husband as naturally as he fucks her, and everything is perfect.

Marcus has so many sounds she’s never heard before. Low bass growls of “unh unh unh” synced with her thrusts, loose-throated cries that tumble out like he’s not in control of them, a teeth-gritting hiss as her hand on his cock picks up speed, suffocating him with pleasure from both directions.

After all these years - still, so many firsts. So many new worlds to discover.

They lose all track of time, of space, of anything that isn’t this. Marcus trembles from head to toe, restless, wild, his skin hot and salt-sheened against Abby’s mouth as she presses kiss after kiss into his shoulders and throat. Her hand wraps around the shaft of his cock, which leaps and quivers in her hand like a living thing as she strokes it smoothly up and down, in perfect sync with her own thrusts. She revels in the feeling of possessing him entirely, her body behind him, around him, above him, inside him. She’s everywhere, and he’s completely hers.

“This is what it feels like, for me,” she murmurs into his ear, as he groans and shudders. “When you’re inside me. When it’s your body on mine. When we’re joined together, and I get to take you inside, and hold you there. Hold you in me.”

“And now you know,” he whispers hoarsely, turning his head over his shoulder to meet her eyes, “why I love being with you so much. The way it feels so good to fill you up.”

“And leave me a little bit sore in the morning,” she teases, pressing a kiss on his chin. He chuckles.

“You’re definitely going to be doing that.”

“Am I hurting?”

“No. No, it’s so good, Abby, it’s perfect, I just . . . _fuck_ , Abby, I just want to be able to _look_ at you. I want to watch you fuck me, and I _can’t,_ and it’s making me crazy.”

“There’s another way we could do it,” she tells him, “but it would be so much deeper, I didn’t know if you -”

“Please,” he grits out, chest heaving, so she pulls out of him and rolls him onto his back, spreading his muscular thighs apart as wide as they’ll go and lifting his ass back up onto the pillow again.

“You sure?” she asks him, as she kneels between his legs, cock just nudging at his now relaxed and yearning entrance, and he nods. So she braces her knees on the mattress and her hands on his chest, high enough that she can caress his nipples with her thumbs, and then she pushes back in, smooth and relentless, and doesn’t stop until she’s filled him all the way.

When she bottoms out inside him, so deep that she can feel the warm, pulsing weight of his sac pressed snugly against the mound of her cunt, they’re both _stunned_ by it. Marcus is so full he can hardly form words anymore, and Abby has found the friction she’s been craving.

She withdraws and then re-enters, just once, experimentally. Marcus throws back his head and arches his back and cries out her name like he’s _dying_ , so this seems like a good place to linger for awhile. With the resistance of his flesh pushing back against hers, she’s finally getting fucked, too, his flesh and the base of the cock rubbing harder and harder, all over her cunt.

Marcus can feel her wetness smear hot and sticky across his skin, and he shudders. “How are you doing that?” he demands, between heavy breaths. “You don’t even have anything inside you.”

“Pressure,” she murmurs back. “It feels really good.”

His eyes go wide. “Could you make yourself come like this?” he asks, wonderingly.

“It’s all I can do _not_ to,” she confesses frankly. “I’m trying to make this about _you.”_

“Do it,” he whispers, his hands lifting up to cover hers where they rest on his chest. “Fuck me until you come, Abby, let me see it, let me watch you. What do you need? What do you want to do?”

“I want to go harder,” she whispers, “I want to feel you push back against me as hard as you can, for you to fuck me back.”

“Then don’t stop,” he murmurs, squeezing her hands. “Don’t stop until you come.”

So she braces her weight forward, and begins to move - slow, rolling thrusts at first, plunging in as deep as he’ll take her to bring his flesh back in contact with hers, then slowly beginning to drive faster and faster. She’s incredibly powerful, he’s learned over the years not to underestimate her slight stature, and within moments their bodies are crashing together with almost violent force, the air filled with wild, desperate cries.

 _“Marcus,”_ she gasps as she feels pressure build up and up and up inside her with every movement, as the base attaching the cock to the harness presses flat against her clit. “Marcus, I’m -”

“I’m close too,” he whispers desperately, so she shifts all her weight to her left hand, bracing herself on his torso, and lets her right drift down between their bodies to grip his cock again.

“Then come with me.”

And she jerks his slick, pulsing cock in her deft little fist as her hips push and push, so deep inside him he’s practically screaming with pleasure, writhing beneath her, eyes fixed on hers. They can’t stop looking at each other. Marcus is _wrecked_ with pleasure, his hair a tangled mess, sweat trickling down all over his skin, his whole torso flushed red with heat and exertion, his eyes wide and dark and dazed. And he, for his part, can’t stop looking at her, this small, powerful queen who is breaking him completely open, hungrily taking her own pleasure from his as her perfect breasts quiver with every thrust and her thick silken hair cascades down over one shoulder to brush his skin.

Abby comes first, surprising both of them, a deep and heavy orgasm like she’s never experienced before, nothing but friction and pressure and weight drawing it out of her. She gasps, a flush sweeping her cheeks, and Marcus watches with reverent adoration as she gasps and trembles between his parted thighs.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, when she’s done. “I love you like that.”

“Your turn,” she tells him, leaning forward again to deepen her angle and accelerate her thrusts as her hand moves on his cock, and after watching her come he can’t hold out for much longer. Abby listens greedily to the rise and rise of his moaning, all these sounds he’s never made before merging and expanding into an orgasm she can feel building inside every cell of his body.

“Abby,” he whispers, reaching out desperately for her, pulling her body forward so her nipples press into his chest, so he can clamp his arms around her back. He always wants her close, when he’s coming. He always wants to hold her. All his adult life he’s restrained himself so tightly that he was afraid, at the beginning, to let go with her. To lose himself. She anchors him in his own pleasure, somehow, makes it safe for him to release without holding back.

“I’m right here,” she tells him, voice muffled by his warm, sweat-sheened chest, pressing kisses along his breastbone as she feels the cock in her hand swell and swell and finally burst, taking his whole body with it.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he cries out, cradling her body against him as her hips and her hands topple him over the edge. “Oh fuck, Abby, oh God, I love you, _fuck,_ it’s too, oh God, I’ve _never,”_ and the rest is lost as he buries his mouth in her hair, gasping and grunting and shuddering until her careful hand has drawn every last drop out of him and he’s dissolved into liquid in her arms.

She pulls out of him as carefully as she can, and unfastens the harness so she can curl up more perfectly in his arms, cheek pillowed on his breast, savoring the frantic hammer of his heartbeat.  
  
“Nothing has _ever -”_ he begins, in a dazed voice, but can’t finish the sentence. “I can’t - it was so - _God,_ Abby . . .”  
  
“So you like it, then,” she teases him, snuggling up into his chest, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss her hair.  
  
“I think we could say that, yes.”  
  
“I’m so glad.”  
  
“You were a natural, by the way.”  
  
“Thank you very much. I learned from the best.”  
  
“You mean me, or Jake?”  
  
She swats him on the ass for his impudence, then bites her lip apologetically when he flinches. “Careful,” he says, hissing out a long, slow exhale. “I’m going to need a minute to recover before you can go back to smacking me around back there. You gave it quite a workout.”  
  
“So, no grabbing my husband’s ass in the dinner line for the next few days.”  
  
“I think Clarke would appreciate that being a _permanent_ rule.”  
  
“I’ll be gentle with you, I promise,” she says, rolling over so their bodies are pressed together, the soft heavy weight of his sated cock pressed against her belly, and gives his ass a soft, light caress. He closes his eyes and sighs happily.  
  
“That, I like,” he murmurs. “That, you can keep doing.”  
  
“I enjoyed being you for a night,” she says, sinking into his arms. He laughs at this.  
  
“Hey now,” he retorts in mock indignation. “I think we both know that mine is bigger than yours.”  
  
“Very funny,” she rolls her eyes. “Martha made that same joke.”  
  
Marcus freezes.  
  
Abby, suddenly realizing, freezes too. “Uh-oh,” she says, biting her lip.  
  
_“Abby,”_ he says sternly, glowering at her. “Tell me this did not come from . . . from _that woman’s_ shop.”  
  
“Well, I _could_ tell you that, but I feel like honesty is the cornerstone of a good marriage, so -”  
  
Marcus flops dramatically against the pillow, heaving a beleaguered sigh. “I cannot _believe_ you.”  
  
“I bought you a present! You liked it! How am I the bad guy?”  
  
“Because she’s going to _know._ Every time I walk in there, she’s going to look at me, with that look, you know that look, the one that says she’s thinking _very invasive things_ about me, and it was bad enough when she was only sizing me up from the front, but now she’s going to be doing it from the _back,_ and - stop laughing!”  
  
“Marcus,” Abby says reasonably, attempting valiantly to swallow back her giggles, “she is a professional. She’s not hitting on you.”  
  
“I know she’s not hitting on me. I would mind less, if she was hitting on me. Then I could just tell her I wasn’t interested, and maybe she’d stop. But there’s no equivalent polite brush-off for ‘please stop being so interested in the sex I’m having with my wife.’ And now that she knows you bought a . . . _that thing_ from her store, and she’ll know you used it on me, then she’s going to want to know how I liked it, she’s going to have _suggestions,_ she’s going to try and give us _advice_ -”  
  
“Fine, then,” Abby says, “I’ll take it back.”  
  
“I didn’t say that,” Marcus says hastily, setting off Abby’s uncontrollable giggles again, and finally, after a long moment, he relents, and begins to laugh too.  
  
“Well, I can never show my face in that store - or, potentially, the town - ever, ever again,” he sighs, leaning down to kiss her hair. “But I suppose, next time you see her - you can tell her I said thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> From the 2019 kink meme - https://kabbykinkmeme.livejournal.com/1042.html?thread=153618#t153618. The prompt just said "pegging", but somehow it turned into a FEELINGS EXPLOSION, go figure.
> 
> Lyrics by Ani diFranco, because I'm a soft nineties gay.


End file.
